Russian Roulette
by Short-Circuited
Summary: When Russia himself and Lithuania's boss, Antanas Merkys, vie over control of said country, Russia offers to play a game. And what game better to play than one born in the very bloodied bowels of his own home?


**Disclaimer**: I, C.Q., do not own Hetalia in any way, shape, or form.

**A/N****: ** I cannot believe that I am the only Hetalia fan that has thought of this as an idea for a story, though I have yet to come across one. Please, if this story seems similar to yours I apologize.

Also, I do not take credit for the information found in italics, for I used Wikipedia and other informational sites; and any other languages mentioned in this is used by Google Translate, so I don't know how well the translator works.

I warn must my readers that the historical information used in the story has been twisted by my own mind in order to make this fanfiction happen in accordance to the Soviet Union's annexation of the Baltic states in 1940, World War II.

This story is dedicated to my friend Tyler, who loves Russia. He was the first person who came to mind when I wrote this.

Thanks,

C.Q ;)

P.S.: Translations are at the bottom of the document and none of the characters are O.C.'S

* * *

Давайте сыграем в игру, да?(1)

_On June 14, 1940, the Soviet Government issued an ultimatum to Lithuania, demanding the formation of a new Lithuanian government and permission to station additional Red Army troops there. Lithuania was occupied by Soviet troops in 1940, as a consequence of the 1939__Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact__between__Nazi Germany__and the Soviet Union. _

_After the__USSR presented an ultimatum to Lithuania__in June of that year, Smetona proposed armed resistance against the Soviets.__The majority of the government and the commanders of the army did not concur with this proposal, and Smetona turned over the duties of President to Prime Minister__Antanas Merkys__, and on June 15 he and his family fled to Germany, and then on to__Switzerland__without surrendering his powers. Today, in Kaunas, Lithuania on June 16__th__, 1940, Merkys (the de facto president) is to meet with the Russian diplomat, Ivan Braginsky._

* * *

Two men, one of a smaller, robust stature and another of a taller, leaner form, walked into the conference room, the former first. The robust man held the door open for the other, welcoming him in with a smile that hid frustration.

A sort of restraint could be seen in his brown eyes, hiding a worry in their dark pools. This worried man was known as Antanas Merkys, the de facto leader of Lithuania after Antanas Smetona's defection just recently on June 15th. He looked out into the lobby and tossed a friendly reassuring wink to his timid looking charge sitting in the farthest chair of the room. Green eyes stared back, their owner offering Merkys a concerned smile and then took to fiddling with their fingers positioned in their lap. Before he shut the door Merkys' thick hand slid to his right flicking the light switch on to the dark room.

The lights lit up, revealing a simple set up of a table separating two chairs from one another; it was a dull room with normal tan walls and the incandescent lights added to the somber set up. Even the sound in the room, the ever present hum of the lights, gave the atmosphere a solemn mood. The only thing that looked out of place was the clear, glass, bottles filled with vodka and whiskey sitting on a mahogany table set with glasses sitting in the corner of the room.

The taller man waited for the other to close the door and lock it, keeping them from being interrupted at any time of the conversation. They had much to discuss and couldn't afford to be distracted currently. An awkward silence impregnated the room, save for the ever present hum of the lights that gave the atmosphere a solemn mood. Merkys didn't look the other in his violet eyes as he made his way to the table where the man stood.

When the man with violet eyes didn't sit down when he did, Merkys awkwardly motioned to the man,

"Please, Mr. Russia, have a seat, we have much to discuss."

The taller man, Russia as it were or also known as Ivan Braginsky, took a seat with a childlike smile plastered to his round face. Russia sat rigidly in his seat, at least from Merkys' stand point he did so, but Mr. Braginsky felt as comfortable as ever in the mahogany chair, with his cornsilk colored scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. Merkys noticed the long pinkish object and cocked a thick white eyebrow at the Russian, and it was then that he also noticed the man's long ecru trench coat.

"Mr. Russia, why don't you make yourself comfortable, you must be burning up in those layers", Merkys stated with a smile cloaked in hidden nervousness.

Ivan only offered the man another one of his signature childlike smiles and the simple wave of his leather gloved hand,

"Нет, спасибо(2). I am fine this way", Russia's thick, and whimsical accent leaked into Merkys bones when he spoke, chilling him to the core. He didn't know how he would survive this meeting; good thing he didn't need to.

Merkys shivered a bit and let a small upturn of his thin lips allow Ivan to know that he acknowledged his statement. He sat in thought for a moment, pondering on what to say to the diplomat before him, not wanting to offend the Russian. When he couldn't find anything he sighed and leaned back in his chair trying to make himself not so scared in front of the childlike man. Although his stature now sat high, Merkys still could not even compare to Braginsky's staggering five eleven form.

Yet he fixated his posture to show the man before him that he was not intimidated in the least, though this is a lie, and met Russia's violet eyes with a newly found gallantry. His voice stood out firm and unyielding towards Russia,

"Mr. Russia, I am not one to beat around the bush, so I'm just going to begin our conference as straight forward as possible. Is that alright?"

Russia gave a slight nod, his smile never wavering, "Da, let's beat the bush."

The Lithuania President stared at the man for a split second before offering a perturbed,

"Alright."

"I understand the Lithuanian council is currently taking in part of your leader's , Stalin's, ultimatum at the moment, as I was one to support the idea", Merkys offered with a proud smile, hoping to get on the nation's good side. When Russia didn't show any sign of his gratefulness Merkys coughed and then continued on.

"I also understand that the Red Army is stationing 100,000 troops in the country now. Last night the council could not come to an agreement on fully being annexed; as we have only allowed you to station troops here. According to the council they have accepted this fully and will take responsibility for the Soviet's troops."

Merkys paused for a moment trying to think of the right words to say, for his next point is a delicate position, one that he wouldn't know the Russian's reaction to. Sweat started to form on his thick brow as the nervousness flowed through his arteries. Merkys' hands tightened on the arms of his chair before pushing himself to stand up.

Russia never took his innocent eyes off of the man, which terrified Merkys, making him fret more. Even as he walked to the table of alcohol he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. His thick hands shook in timidity, causing the bottle to clank up against the glass.

"Would you like a drink, Sir", he questioned quietly, looking over his shoulder to the Russian.

"Да, пожалуйста(3)."

Russia's sugary voice terrified Merkys to no end, yet his form (save for his trembling hands) never would let the former know it. He quickly poured another glass for his companion and walked back to the table to set them both down.

Immediately, Russia took the glass and in no time the bitter liquid was gone from his glass. When his removed the glass from his pale lips another smile, same as all the others, took its place yet again. Merkys stared in awe, as he had even yet to bring his own glass to his mouth. He took one look at the glass then set it down, opting for drinking it later, and thinking he might need it; and boy he would.

Although he made use of his timing to gather his thoughts, nothing came of it. Here he was in the same position as before he went to get a drink and still as blank minded as ever.

Merkys didn't know what it was or how to describe it, but there had been a dull scratching in the back of his consciousness ever since his and Russia's entrance into the room. It gnawed and nipped on the outskirts of his most primal instincts giving his body the fight or flight syndrome; though, he could not place why this feeling had come to him. As far as he could tell he was not in trouble, nor was Mr. Russia; so with his conscious screaming at him from making this decision, he pushed the itching feeling away and smiled at the man before him.

Sir Merkys made himself more comfortable by leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on fisted hands. A deep, troubled sigh escaped him before he could capture it. He really needed to get this show on the road, as there is no way of avoiding the topic at all.

"Mr. Russia, I know this may come off as a little blunt to you, but it has just occurred to me that there is not an easier way to say this", Merkys stated softly.

Russia nodded, prompting the man on when he paused to shoot his eyes down at the table, "Да, go on."

After a moment or two passed Merkys could not stand his own procrastination any longer. His brown eyes met Russia's violet ones with a profound determination; his words were as clear as the vodka itself,

"I'm sorry, Mr. Russia, but Lithuania will in no way be annexed into your sovereign nation at all. Those are words from my government", he gave Russia a pointed look, "and, more specifically, words from myself."

Russia's childlike smile never faded as he listened to Merkys speak, and his toxic, violet eyes never left the man when he got up and began to pace the little room in trepidation. The man began to get animated as he spoke so passionately.

"I can take the troops being stationed here, Mr. Russia, by God my entire nation can take that; but what it cannot take is the damned Red Army marching into to our cities, our beloved country, and taking over our people, our economy, and, more importantly, our government.

"If the Red Army would let its boots march on our cities in an offensive manner, then let it be done, for our army will execute them. Because of my council's decision I recommend speaking with Estonia and Latvia about this matter, but as far as I'm concerned . . ."

Merkys stopped his traipsing to place his hands firmly on the table, leaning forward to emphasize his point, a resolute shine in his eyes, and a haughty grin on his face. The Lithuania President thought he had the man in a tight position when he spoke,

"You will never get your grimy hands on this nation."

The utter silence in the room stood firm and deafening, leaving the two men to their own thoughts of the other. Merkys panted softly, exhausted from his political and righteous outburst; his hands were still firmly in place on the wooden table, but his body shook with something he couldn't place.

A second or two passed before he stood up to his full height of five eight and straightened his tie, which had become loose in his tangent. Then, to his surprise, Russia spoke, still with that thick, albeit naïve voice,

"You will become one with mother Russia, Да?"

The statement hung in the air as Merkys stared in total astonishment, then anger, and then back to astonishment at the young man. He stood gaping like a surfaced fish as his face turned a bright crimson with fury. He gritted his yellowed teeth and clenched his fists, glaring at Russia in utter rage. He spoke firmly, his anger not wavering his voice until the end of his statement,

"Are you an idiot, or are you deaf? Did you just not hear me speaking young man? I can't believe that Stalin sent you thinking you could handle this issue. You're just a boy compared to me. What are you, twenty? Twenty five? You aren't old enough to handle these things."

Merkys could feel the flesh of his teeth grinding together, ripping away the enamel on the tiny bones. How could he been so stupid to think that this boy cold understand anything about politics. Men his age did not belong in warfare, except to be drafted as targets.

A happy laugh knocked the enraged man out of his recollections. Across the table, Russia sat chuckling happily, his violet eyes covered by the pale lids, and a leather gloved hand wiped a cheerful tear away. When he opened his eyes, Russia was met with the perturbed face of Merkys. He looked utterly astounded that the diplomat would laugh in his face after his said such convicting words.

Yet, Russia merely continued to smile that same everlasting smile, to which Merkys could only believe that it held a different meaning than happiness. Ivan laced his gloved fingers together on the table, peering up at Merkys with an innocent look,

"You seem to misunderstand, Mr. Merkys. I am as old as Russia herself; I am practically Russia when you think about it", he laughed again, this time tossing his head back, beige hair falling out of place, as he did so.

His saccharine voice carried over Merkys' ears like thick syrup full of sins and noxious promises, "And, when I ask if you will become one with mother Russia, I'm not really asking you. It is but a rhetorical question, meant to lead to you to believe that you actually have a choice."

When Russia finished this petrifying statement, Merkys only stared onward confused by his last few words. He didn't comprehend the situation as he should have, for Russia's words were seemingly simple and blunt. Though, to help the poor man out, Russia spoke again, being blunter than before.

"It's seems as though you do not comprehend my words, Mr. Merkys. Are you an idiot, or are you deaf?" Russia's use of Merkys' own words bit back hard when used in the syrupy accent.

Merkys clamored for words, but Russia quickly took the time to fill the silence,

"I'll speak again so you can understand me: You _will_ become one with mother Russia. Whether you like it, or not, Mr. Merkys."

The words finally hit home with the Lithuanian.

"Are – are you mad? Lithuania will not be annexed", he squawked indignantly, eyes going wide. "Who do you think you are? I will not have the Soviet Union march in on my territory!"

Russia simply smiled up to the furious man, a teasing gleam in his eyes,

"Ah, but, Mr. Merkys, you are but a de facto leader, a replacement of the late Antanas Smetona. Which if I recall, according to the Lithuanian constitution, you are, by law, illegally President; due to the fact that you had so called 'removed Smetona' from the office, and he had not formally resigned himself.

"This, by law, should render your place in office as President null and void. Meaning, that you have no control over any diplomatic issues pertaining to the nation of Lithuania, nor of its own national problems. Am I at all right, Mr. Merkys?"

Absolutely speechless, Antanas Merkys stood above the Russian. He'd called him out. He knew the Lithuanian bylaws, and he knew of Smetona's unofficial resignation. How could he have thought that Russia and Stalin would not have done their research? How could he have been so daft and naïve to think that these men would overlook something so painfully suspicious?

Merkys, in awe and petrifaction, slumped down into his chair, unable to find words and barely able to even breathe. His chest felt tight as that same gnawing feeling came back full force and with no penitence.

It bit and clawed this time, aiming for his brain and heart, where the thoughts and blood pumped erratically throughout his form. It sent shivers racing down his spine, into his toes. It clouded his eyes making it hard to see the danger in front of him. But, it did leave his ears open and as clear as ever, allowing him to sense the terrifying laughter coming from his opponent.

He now recognized the feeling that gave him the "fight or flight" syndrome. He recognized the primal urge to leap from the chair and prepare himself for battle. He now recognized this emotion as _fear_. Pure, unadulterated, primordial _fear_.

Only when he clamored for new breath did Merkys notice that he wasn't breathing. He'd held his breath in for so long that he had turned a pale white, adding to his new form of petrifaction. Merkys reached for his long forgotten vodka and took it down in one gulp.

Russia watched the man squirm in hidden amusement behind the façade of a childlike demeanor.

Whether Russia knew it consciously or not, his mentality had been broken a long time ago. Decades of war, famine, and unintended bloodshed had ravaged his mind till there was nothing left but the persona of a child with a cruel and malicious disposition. Some would even go as far as to call him insane, really.

The other nations found it quite odd when he made offhanded seemingly sadistic comments towards certain topics. France had made a point to stay away from the man-child when he kept murmuring about "a dark secret that no one would guess because of [his] sweet face." China and England also made a point to stay away from the man when he spoke about America's caricature of him, saying: "If that is supposed to be my face, I will hack it off with my pick axe."

Yes, Russia is a man with a demeanor similar to that of a child with a magnifying glass standing over an ant bed.

Russia is the child.

The other nations are the many ants.

When had had enough of Merkys insistent squirming and hyperventilating, he wanted to see him squirm some more.

So, with a sugary smile he spoke candidly with the Lithuanian,

"If you would like, we do not have to take my previous words to heart."

Merkys brown eyes flicked over to Russia, ready to here the oncoming proposition from the young man. At this point in the game he would take anything as a proposition.

"Let's play a game, Да", Ivan queried, a happy shine in his eyes at his own idea.

"What are the terms, Mr. Russia", Merkys stared at the man tiredly, his body exhausted from the conference.

"If you win, mother Russia will not annex your nation, only allowing us to keep our troops stationed in Lithuania for the sake of war; and as soon as the war is over we will pull out, leaving you in peace."

Merkys nodded in agreement, accepting the terms that Ivan had just mention. So far, the terms seemed fine.

"And if you win", he asked, prompting Russia to his next point of the game.

"If I win, Mr. Merkys, Russia will annex your country, over throwing its government and substituting its own, forcing your government to pick your own leader to be watched over by the Soviet Union."

The Lithuanian president couldn't help but let a pained grimace cross his features, feeling his hands tense, when the terms were read out to him. Of course, they were equal, and there seemed to be a fifty/fifty chance on the matter. It is either he wins or he loses.

Letting a steely solve fall into his eyes, Merkys nodded, again accepting the terms physically and vocally,

"Alright, name the game, Mr. Russia."

The way the already formed grin split Russia's face in glee chilled Merkys to the core; he knew he made a life threatening statement at that moment.

And indeed he had, for the next second Russia pulled a gray and black revolver from underneath his over coat and laid it out on the table with a bright smile, as if it were an unopened Christmas present for the man before him. He watched in elation when the reaction he was looking was looking for was elicited form Merkys mouth. A string of Lithuanian left his throat as he back peddled and flipped the chair back in was formerly sitting in,

"Kur pragaro jūs gaunate, kad? Jūs turėjo duoti, kad prie apsaugų(4)!"

He rose up from the floor, using the table to lift himself up slowly, eyeing the barrel of the gun as he did so. As far as he could tell, the gun was a regular Nagant M1895, gas sealed, seven cylinder revolver. He should have figured that the diplomat would not go unarmed into unfamiliar territory, for the revolver was a standard issue for the Red Army; and he had a feeling that this young man, Ivan Braginsky, was more than just a diplomat for the Soviet Union.

"What do you intend to do with that, Mr. Russia", he questioned, voice cracking as he pulled his body back into his chair rigidly.

The next answer Russia gave him made Merkys blanch, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Have you ever heard of Russian Roulette, Mr. Merkys?"

* * *

_The true origins of Russian roulette are unclear. Many legends attempt to depict the history of Russian roulette. Most of them are said to take place in Russia, and mostly concern Russian soldiers or Russian prisoners of war. There is no real evidence to support this._

_It can also be stated that it is believed that the game originated in 19th century czarist Russia. Prison guards forced the prisoners to play the game, and they would place bets on the outcome. Although the true history of the practice is very difficult to prove, many scholars maintain that it was there the game developed, thus earning the name Russian roulette. Throughout the next hundred years - and particularly during the violent periods of the Russian Revolution - unhinged and suicidal Russian officers would play the game in front of other officers. What is even more surprising is that perfectly sane and healthy officers engaged in the practice merely to prove their bravery. _

_The closest thing to Russian roulette, that we know did happen on occasion, was a game called ''cuckoo''. One Russian officer would stand on a table or chair in a dark room. Other officers would hide around the room and call out, ''cuckoo''. The officer with the gun would fire randomly at the sound._

_Russian roulette would also be varied from different people as some would find an exciting way to play with a group, to duel, or to play with suicide._

_Variation two of the game says __"__If playing without re-spinning, the initial probability of the first player being shot is 1/7 (depending on the gun), but the probability of being shot increases every time the trigger is pulled"._

_In this case, what better for a Russian to play a game that was concocted in the bloodied bowels of his mother country . . .?_

* * *

At this point in the game Merkys would take anything as a proposition – except _that_.

His tongue felt heavy and desiccated in his mouth when his tried to speak. The barrel of the gun stared at him, _taunting_ him from the mahogany table that it rested upon. Its metal shined gloriously under the incandescent light of the room, the shine matching the one in the violet eyes its owner. They both taunted him – mocked- him into submission.

Oh, yes, he has heard of this game before, and if his suspicions were correct, this would not end very well. Not very pretty either.

He blinked a few times, and then looked to the floor, weighing his chances of winning. According to his math there was a 1/7 chance of losing, on the other he had a 6/7 chance of winning. His chances looked pretty good, but Merkys was never one to leave his fate up to chance.

Merkys licked his dry lips, nodding to Russia, showing his approval and sealing his fate; he never once looked up into the mocking eyes of Ivan Braginsky.

Russia, hoped up from his seat, a malicious, sweet smile cut his face in two, grabbing the revolver as he did so.

Merkys stood up slowly, hoping to prolong the inevitable. Just as he was about to walk to Russia, ready to get the show on the road, he spun around facing the table full of liquor. He immediately walked to the small table and picked up the bottle of vodka, chugging it, drowning his apprehension in poison.

If he was about to gamble his life away, he was going to do it with a good, strong alcohol in him. It would give people the impression that he played this game under the influence of and not of his own true free will. He was not a suicidal man, but what is he supposed to do when his home is threatened by a formidable force.

Before when he went on his tangent, before everything went downhill, he had been bluffing. For Merkys knew that his army could not defeat the forces of the Red Army. Russia knew that and so did he. They had no chance. Except for one, and it involved gambling his life away.

"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get this over with", he stated stiffly, walking over to the Russian, who stood, death contraption in hand.

"Да, let's begin."

Russia opened the cylinder with an owner's ease, having done it a million times over. He showed the seven shot cylinder to Merkys, revealing that is was full of 7.5 mm cartridges. Everything he did with the gun he allowed Merkys to see; from the removing of each individual bullet to the replacing of a single bullet back into the cylinder.

Merkys gave a nod showing that he approved of his possible cylinder of demise. Russia then spun the cylinder one good, hard time. The metal spun around and around in the gun, showing a small glimpse of the gleaming bullet as it caught the lights on its polished shell.

Around and around the cylinder goes, wherever it stopped they sure as hell didn't know.

Then with a flick of Ivan's wrist the cylinder clicked back in place, locking one of their dooms in conjunction with the barrel. A silence fell heavy upon their shoulders as both men stood staring at the gun as if it would do a back flip on the spot.

The clearing of Merkys' throat settled the silence as he motioned towards the contraption,

"We . . .We should probably get started." His stood floated out in a wispy way, getting notice to his trepidation.

Ivan merely smirked and gave a slight nod, and held the handle of the gun out to Merkys, "Да, you can go first since I requested we play the game. It's only fair."

Merkys, gulped, whispered a tiny "thank you", and then took the gun from the man before him. His hand shook as he brought the barrel to his own head. He stopped for a moment, trying to force his hand, but it seemed his body wouldn't allow him to send himself to his own demise.

Shuddering breath drifted past his chapped lips with each shaky exhalation. He brought the pad of his thumb to the back of the hammer to pull it into place, the click locking his fate. Slowly, a drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face, falling on to the floor beneath his feet.

It was now or never. He slammed his eyes shut and fumbled with the trigger a bit before getting a good grip on it. Merkys took a deep breath and –

_Click~_

Merkys opened his eyes slowly, looking at the gun in awe and astonishment. Nothing. He didn't die. But he knew better to count his chickens before they hatched. With a still shaky hand he handed the gun to Russia.

The next action from the Russian completely caught Merkys off guard, for he never imagined someone to enter this game was as much vigor as he had just witnessed.

The former snatched the gun away, drew the hammer back, and pulled the trigger, without even a second thought. Only a click came from the gun, but that did not occur to Merkys as he stared at Russia with an incredulous look. Russia seemed to catch onto his opponents thoughts, for he then stated, as if it was the most common thing in the world,

"Beat the bush, not around it."

With that said the game continued on for the next minute or two, never once did the gun go off at all. What are the chances that the filled chamber landing right after the position it was supposed to be in if it were ready to be shot?

Neither a word nor look was shared between the two as they went about their business, handling it in their own way: Merkys in anxiety and Ivan in apathy. With each click of the hammer the tension grew in the room, making Merkys pour sweat.

Only when the last turn came around did Merkys actually put thought in that the bullet was in fact for him. What are the chances?

Apparently 1/7, Merkys.

Russia handed him the live gun with a happy smile.

"Your turn, Mr. Merkys."

Antanas Merkys looked his own death in the face, holding it in his own hand actually. His hand followed the polished gunmetal, feeling the contours of the contraption, getting to know his demise up close and personal. How many people could say that they met their death and held their death in their own hands before dying?

Merkys didn't waste any time as he made up his mind about his next actions.

He drew the hammer back slowly, taking deep, trembling breaths, his last ones. It seemed like time stopped for Merkys as he brought the barrel up to his temple. He felt the cool metal brush up against his heated skin, kissing it gently, as if sealing his fate with a last, sweet promise.

The breath that left his throat would be his last before his next actions were carried out. His finger tightened on the trigger slightly, preparing himself.

With a primal yell, Antanas Merkys, swung his arm around, brandishing the gleaming revolver with uncertainty in his actions. He pulled the trigger when his sights landed on Russia. In the split second between the pulling of the trigger and the firing of the gun Ivan Braginsky stepped to the left and pounced on the Lithuanian.

The bullet had whizzed past him, into the wall at the back of the room. Merkys' wide eyes stared up into the face of Russia's with fear in their depths. He was done for –he knew he was.

Even since the beginning; their entrance into the room; when the gnawing feeling occurred on the edge of his consciousness; when the feeling took to biting and clawing at his soul; when Russia stated that he had no choice but to become one with mother Russia; when he numbly accepted the game; all of this was fate telling him that this is it and to make peace with whatever god he praised.

Yet, as he gazed up into the violet, innocent eyes of Ivan, he knew that his chances to make peace had flown out the proverbial window when he fired the gun. Ivan had no intentions of letting him make peace. No, there was no need for that.

Instead of pulling out another gun, Ivan reached into his coat, where his hand came out wielding a long, silver blade. He offered the man a smile as he quickly jabbed the knife into Merkys chest, eliciting a tortuous screech, especially when he twisted the blasted thing and pulled out.

Blood dripped from the sharp edge of the knife, falling onto the shoulder of Russia's coat when he lifted the weapon above his head. The blood constantly dripped, and not only onto his trench coat, but onto the beige strands of hair that laid over his head in an endearing, muddled way. Red rubies trailed down Ivan's face contradicting the innocent façade on his visage. Violet eyes bore into Merkys own brown ones when the blade was brought down swiftly, digging into his face.

The last thing Antanas Merkys heard was a thick, saccharine voice saying,

"Вы проиграли, да(5)?"

* * *

**Translations**:

1: Давайте сыграем в игру, да? – Russian for "Let's Play A Game, Yes?"

2: "Нет, спасибо." – Russian for "No, thank you."

3: "Да, пожалуйста" – Russian for "Yes, please."

4: "Kur pragaro jūs gaunate, kad? Jūs turėjo duoti, kad prie apsaugų!" – Lithuanian for "Where in the hell did you get that? You were supposed to give that to the guards!"

5:" Вы проиграли, да?" – Russian for "You lose, yes?"


End file.
